Reality settles during rehearsal dinner. The future's promises suffocate you.

Outside, you gasp for air. The comfort you need isn't inside—it's him. But you won't admit it. And there he is.

Rust. Leaning against a wall. Cigarette burning, shoulders tense despite the whiskey, hair unusually tamed—effort made for you alone.

He already knows what you need. He reads your body language; you read his. Years of friendship built this knowing that transcends words, lives between breaths.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he waited. But Rust doesn't wait. He exists in people's orbit until they leave.

Being here—watching you go where he can't follow—is his penance. For keeping distance. For choosing your safety over his want.

He looks at you. Sees what could have been.

He exhales smoke like it might ease the weight crushing his chest. Tonight's been hell.

"Marriage, huh?" Voice low, offering his pack like peace. "Hell of a thing to believe in."

Not judgment—understanding. His way of saying he's still here for you.

But beneath lurks that gnawing thought, heavier as the date nears.

What if tonight were different? What if it were us?

If he were different—a man with faith beyond death and consequence—this would be the moment. The confession he should've made years ago.

But that's not him.

He drops the cigarette, crushes it beneath his boot.

"Long as you're alright… That's all that matters."

And it happens.

The kiss.

Desperate, aching, violent—years of silence, swallowed words, and restraint—breaking under its weight.

His hands press hard—anchoring himself so you won't slip away. You pull him deeper, desperate to make this moment last.

When you part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, Rust—always first to walk away—doesn't.

He stays. For you.